Hope Is Never Mustered Up From Within

Emily Dickinson describes hope as “the thing with feathers” and I can’t imagine a more accurate description.

I live in a small, French community—less than 2000 people. I’m also an outsider to this community; I come from an even smaller, fully English community that’s about an hour away from my current home. 

So when your abuser and his advocates, who have lived here their whole lives, and whose family has generations of deep roots within the community, begins lying about you, it feels hard to go out in public. 

Every time I stand in line in the convenience store, ask for paint to be mixed at the hardware store, ask for money to moved at the bank, pick up a prescription at the pharmacy, a small part of me cowers. Have they heard? Do they believe it too? Do they think I lock my children up? Do they think I don’t feed my kids? Do they believe my house is unfit? Do they think I’m just a vindictive ex out to ruin his life? 

They smile, they speak pleasantly. But when people you trusted with your life turn against you, those courtesies are meaningless. 

When kind neighbours informed me of the slander, I sought justice. I pursued his parents, but they believe his lies. I sought friends who had witnessed his behaviour and claimed to be on my side, but soon learned they were playing the roll of a double agent. I sought the church, but was told it wasn’t their place to get involved in the lies being spread about me by their employees, volunteers, and members. My lawyer said her hands are tied. 

Is there hope that there will be justice for me—not just in the abuse that was placed upon me, but also the lies told against me? Is there hope that there will be justice in light of the suffering I have faced?

I want that hope, and when I find that hope I want to grip it in a strangle-hold.

I am the type to “pull myself up by my own bootstraps.” And part of that, I want to produce hope within myself. I want to be my own source hope, to create my own hope for myself so I can always have it within reach. I just need a bit more positive thinking, find another person who affirms and validates me, gather more evidence that proves my case. With documents fluttering about and fingers wildly typing out emails and text messages, I scramble to create and take hold of hope for myself. 

But that’s not the way hope works.

There’s a reason Emily Dickinson described hope as “the thing with feathers.” True hope, lasting hope, is found outside of ourselves—because it’s founded on something greater than ourselves and this world. 

The despairing truth is that the only thing we can be certain of in this world is suffering—Jesus himself said it (John 16:33). We are not promised a good, safe, secure, and comfortable life. Even the most positive thinker must reckon with this reality; even when all seems as certain as it can be that all will turn out right, the weeds of sin can sprout. No one can guarantee our future for us. Often times we will find ourselves in “the chillest land” or the “strangest sea”, unsure how we will make it to shelter. It’s in those places, when our fingers are chilled to the bone and land is not within sight, when all our resources are expended and all ability for positive thinking is drained, that we need a place to find hope outside of ourselves and this world. 

For hope to be certain and steadfast, “to never stop - at all,” it cannot be based on what is fleeting, mortal, and malleable. Hope can only keep us and many others warm, as Emily described, if it has its own unending supply of life. That’s why hope, even in extremity, never asks us crumb of us—because it does not need to. True hope has all that it needs within itself, meaning it cannot be anything mortal and finite. 

Hope must be living yet without end. 

Hope must be the Alpha and Omega of all things.

Hope must have the final say.

Hope must be Jesus.

The hope in my nightmares is eternal life found only Christ, where all the things of nightmares will be vanquished. The hope of being at peace with body is in the redemption of my body. The hope for justice is found in the King of kings, the perfect Prince of Peace who will judge all with righteousness against his holy law.

If I’ve learned anything this past year, it’s been that my only hope is truly in Jesus. My hope cannot be in the justice system, in taking vengeance in my own hands, or in court orders.  My hope is found in taking refuge under the wings of Jesus. With the Psalmist, I cry with confidence:

“Have mercy on me, my God, have mercy on me, 
for in you I take refuge.
I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings
until the disaster has passed.” (Ps. 57:1)

Yes, Emily, hope is the thing with feathers. His name is Jesus. “He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart” (Ps. 91:4).

Much of Wren and Stefan’s story in The Painted Fairytale centres on looking for this hope. They both try to find in fleeting things, but when true courage is required of them, they find themselves looking for hope in a more sturdy place.

If you’re looking for hope amid the storm, “the chillest land”, or the “strangest sea,” maybe their story can help you find that little bird “that perches in the soul.”